


Ransom

by sshysmm



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Book 4: Pawn in Frankincense, Exhaustion, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Kidnapping, Las Vegas, Prompt Fill, the band Au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-27 00:48:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21383332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: After a long day's journey (following on fromUnconscious), the band - and two small blonde boys - have escaped to the luxury of Las Vegas. That's it, right?--Written for Whumptober 2019, set in the Band AU I've been writing (see collections).--There's 31 of these ficlets and I apologise profusely for burying other work in the tags. I will *always* tag these as 'the band au' and you can usethis nifty extension (ao3rdr)to block the tag if this isn't your thing and isn't what you want to see in the Lymond tags!
Kudos: 3
Collections: Ficlets in the Lymond Band AU for Whumptober 2019





	Ransom

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted on tumblr, October 27 2019.](https://notasapleasure.tumblr.com/post/188626633854/whumptober-27)

Dusty from the journey, squinting up at the neon lights of Las Vegas, the occupants of the hotwired pickup truck filed into the hotel. Jerott placed a handful of crumpled bills into the palm of the valet and shrugged indifferently. “We lost the key.”

The lobby seemed cleaner than anything they’d known in weeks on the road and in the ashram. The bedraggled group huddled together on polished white marble: Philippa was nearly asleep on her legs, her eyes rimmed with purple shadows, her cheek leaning heavily into Kuzúm’s blonde head as he nuzzled into the space beneath her chin. Archie held onto her shoulder and suppressed a yawn of his own. Jerott’s jaw was locked in some uncomfortable, unspecified rage, his hair greasy and face dark with a day’s growth of beard, and Marthe’s shoulders slumped more than normal, her hair straggling free of its tie, her jacket hanging open to reveal the uneven magenta dye-work on her top: _how dare you assume I’m straight_.

Lymond was the only one who stood with ram-rod discipline, his wheat-blonde hair shining improbably beneath the bright lobby lights. He held his child with one arm, and though he was as pale as the stone cladding and his chin twinkled like sandpaper, the kiss he planted on Khaireddin’s forehead gave the boy pause. Khaireddin frowned, but accepted the gesture as he craned his neck to look about him. In all, he was, perhaps, the most wide awake of all of them.

“Are you _sure_ this is the place, Francis?” Jerott said tautly.

Khaireddin pawed at Lymond’s stubbled face and wrapped a strand of coiled cornsilk hair in his fist, pulling. Lymond’s lip twitched and the frown line between his brows deepened, but he let the child do what it would and scowled back at Jerott. “She’ll be here,” he said with unexpected softness.

“Oh look, it’s flute boy,” Marthe’s voice was hoarse, but firm enough to distract Jerott from questioning Francis further.

At the bottom of the carpeted stairs a familiar figure waved to them. Mikhal still wore his antique Birkenstocks, above-knee kaftan and tie-dyed leggings, but he had clearly had access to a shower since they last saw him. His black hair gleamed in silky cascades to either side of his long, angular face. His easy smile was bright and his walk was as flowing as a dance, his toes pointing out a little so that his hips swayed an invitation when he moved.

“Maestro!” Mikhal opened his arms in welcome.

Lymond hefted Khaireddin’s weight and steeled himself for the journey that took him to meet Mikhal halfway to the stairs. “Where is Oonagh?”

“In her room, maestro. Relaxing, enjoying the time to herself.” Mikhal’s dark eyes were hidden by long, luxurious lashes as he bent to smile at Khaireddin. “Would you like to go to your mother, little one?”

Lymond did not move to hand the child over, though Mikhal reached for him. “You saw Güzel? She gave you our room cards as well?”

The boy inclined his head. “She had an errand to run. I can show you the rooms.”

Khaireddin squirmed in Lymond’s hold, bored with waiting. One hand reached for Mikhal’s mala and one leg kicked out sharply, the heel rebounding off Lymond’s solar plexus. With a grunt, the musician allowed Mikhal to take the child from him: Lymond had grown more pallid through the conversation and he ran a trembling hand over his eyes as they dropped closed for a moment. But he was still the de facto leader of their group, and it was only after Lymond’s nod of command that the others followed him across the lobby.

Mikhal was already at the first bend in the stairs, and he paused to glance at the exhausted party behind. He whispered something in Khaireddin’s ear and was rewarded with an skull-splitting “Yeah!” and then he scampered on upwards with the child laughing in his arms.

Through their tiredness, on legs that had been cramped in a car through a ten hour drive, the others moved with heavy steps. They regrouped on the first landing having lost sight of their guide, and it took time to realise that Mikhal was not on the same floor, nor had he continued on upstairs. It was too late when they checked the elevator, too late when they scoured the service stairs and too late when they realised that Mikhal had taken Khaireddin and vanished.

Confusion gathered until, like rain from a thundercloud, the recriminations began to fall. Raised voices woke Kuzúm, who wailed at the sound of argument. It was easy enough for the hotel staff to identify them when the reception desk received a call for Francis Crawford: a thin blonde man, likely in a state of some agitation, accompanied by a rag-tag band of people in pinks and reds disguised by worn denim and old waterproofs.

Lymond stalked back downstairs, his face bleached of colour, his expression a mask as hard and fixed as those of the faux-classical sculptures decorating the lobby.

He took the phone without a word.

On the other end of the line, silence stretched like a smile widening. Finally, a gust of mirth reached Lymond’s ear, and the caller spoke. “Sweeting, are you not eager to hear news of your wretched little family?”

Around him his friends had gathered, but Lymond turned his shoulder to them and spoke quietly into the receiver. “You don’t need them. Whatever it is you want from me, name it.”

Gabriel chuckled. “Have no fear, the ransom is one you can well afford. Bring your band, bring your instruments, and together we shall make sweet music at the Topkapi Casino.”


End file.
